


John Sheppard's Adynaton

by scrollgirl



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Earth, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrollgirl/pseuds/scrollgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Cam try to hash out their future to nearly disastrous results while ill with the swine flu and confined to the apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Sheppard's Adynaton

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://raisintorte.livejournal.com/profile)[**raisintorte**](http://raisintorte.livejournal.com/) for [](http://community.livejournal.com/sg_flyboys/profile)[**sg_flyboys**](http://community.livejournal.com/sg_flyboys/) using the prompts: _on earth, playing video games, flying pigs_.

John stretches himself out on the floor on his belly to reach for a stray sock under the bed, sneezing and nearly banging his chin on the floor when his movements stir up dust bunnies. Emerging victorious, he rolls up onto his knees, matches the stray sock to another on the bed, then tosses the rolled pair into his duffel. He's nearly finished packing when he hears someone let themselves into the apartment. "I'm in here," he calls out to whoever it might be--Sam, most likely, since she'd mentioned swinging by to drop off papers for Cam.

But to John's surprise, it's Cam himself who appears in the doorway, leaning up against the door jamb like it's the only thing keeping him from keeling over. "Hey," says Cam, sounding so weak and pathetic that John has to bite his lip to keep from smiling.

"You sound like crap." John goes over to him and touches the back of his hand to Cam's forehead. Oh yeah, a month of coffee rations says he's got a fever. "Let me guess: your mission got scrubbed."

Cam's shoulders twitch, barely a shrug. "Lam wouldn't clear me. Said I have the flu."

"No kidding," John snorts. "You were hacking up a lung all last night." He jumps back when Cam starts coughing almost on cue, and keeps coughing for nearly a minute, his face buried in the crook of his elbow. When he finally stops, he shoots John a look of disgust.

"This is your fault," he wheezes. "You brought back some kind of Pegasus bug. S'why I'm sick. I'm _never_ sick."

More likely it's the other way around. John's throat has been scratchy since he got up this morning, and he feels tired and out-of-sorts, cranky in a way he wouldn't get simply because Cam's coughing woke him once or twice in the middle of the night. Considering the way they've been swapping spit during John's leave on Earth, there's better than even odds that he's already got what Cam's got. Wonderful.

Cam stumbles across the room and collapses on the bed. "Tired," he sighs, curling up on his side. He twists his head to gaze hopefully at John. "Take care of me?"

John's not sure whether to be touched or offended. "Do I look like your mother?"

Still, the poor guy does look pretty bad: his face is red and blotchy, the hair at his temples is dark with sweat, his eyes are blood-shot. John's amazed he managed to drive himself home. Taking pity, he forces Cam to uncurl on the bed, directs him to move his arms or lift his hips so John can strip him out of his jeans and button-down shirt. It takes more work getting him into a long-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants, but John's always preferred dressing warmly when he's sick and figures Cam is probably the same way.

Once Cam is tucked into bed, John brings him a glass of water. "Did Lam give you anything to take?" Meds will at least relieve the symptoms and help him feel better.

Huddled under Grandma Mitchell's quilt like he's hibernating for the winter, Cam pokes a finger out to point at his jeans, discarded on the bedroom floor. "Right pocket. Next dose in four hours."

John's supposed to be on the _Hammond_ in four hours' time, so after he digs the small pill bottle out of Cam's jeans and sets it on the bedside table, he also programs the alarm clock to beep every four hours. There's a part of him that feels guilty about leaving Cam alone when he's not even strong enough to undress himself, but damn it--Cam's a grown man who has been taking care of himself for a long time.

He leans over to kiss Cam's forehead. "Love you," he says quietly. Cam opens his eyes to smile at him, fingers tangling in the hem of John's t-shirt.

"Say good-bye before you go?"

"Yeah, of course," says John, brushing a hand over his hair. "I'm not leaving just yet." He waits until Cam's eyelids droop shut before he tiptoes out of the room. Grabbing his dopp kit from the bathroom counter, John zips up his duffel and takes it into the front hall.

In two hours John needs to be at the secure beam-up site, but that's more than enough time to make a chicken and vegetable broth using the homemade chicken stock Cam's got in the freezer. It'll be a nice boyfriend thing to do, John decides.

The land-line rings just as he's dumping the vegetables into the pot, and while John doesn't usually answer the phone at Cam's place, he doesn't want it to keep ringing and wake up Cam. "Hello?"

"Oh," a woman says, surprised. Her voice is familiar. "Is this Colonel Sheppard? Sorry, I was expecting Cam to pick up. It's Dr. Lam from the SGC."

"Hey, Doc," says John, putting the lid on the pot and leaving the soup to boil. "Cam's sleeping right now. Can I take a message?"

"Yes, that'd be--" She cuts herself off, sighing. "Oh. Oh, dear. Colonel, I'm going to have to send someone over to give you a nasopharyngeal swab. If you've been staying with Cam, then you may have been infected as well."

"It's just the flu, isn't it?" John has an excellent immune system, barring some kind of freaky alien virus designed to give him blue scales or tentacles, so he's not really that worried.

"Well, yes, it's the flu, but unfortunately Cam's preliminary lab tests indicate that he has the H1N1 strain. There's not much I can do for him," Lam adds, sounding apologetic, "but I wanted to inform him in case he tried leaving the house. Please tell Cam to stay home, keep his temperature down, and if he starts to experience more severe symptoms, such as nausea, vomiting, diarrhea--"

"Whoa, hold on," John interrupts, growing alarmed. "What the hell is H1N1?"

There's a pause on the other end. "I keep forgetting you live in another galaxy and don't have CNN," says Lam after a moment, chuckling. "H1N1 is a new strain of the influenza virus that has been spreading rapidly since April. The World Health Organization has classified it as a pandemic."

Pulling out a chair, John sits down at the kitchen table. "Is it serious? Should I bring Cam back to the SGC?"

"No, no, there's no need for that. Just make sure he stays warm, drinks plenty of fluids, that sort of thing. It's a new virus strain, so we don't have any natural immunity--it's why a lot of healthy adults are getting sick when they normally wouldn't, and why the symptoms are more severe. There's not really much you can do except let your body fight it off."

"That's... not good." He rubs his forehead, feeling a headache coming on--stress-induced, he hopes. For a brief moment, before caution and common sense wins out, he considers keeping quiet about the fact that he's about to fly off to another galaxy. "Doc, I'm scheduled to beam up to the _Hammond_ in," he checks his watch, "less than an hour."

"Colonel Sheppard," and the warning in her voice comes through five by five, "there's a very good chance you have been infected with H1N1, in which case you'll have to be grounded until your symptoms have resolved. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that an Earth disease getting loose in the Pegasus galaxy could be disastrous."

"It's the flu," he argues, "not the bubonic plague."

"And Kirsan fever doesn't usually cause global amnesia, but I read Dr. Keller's report on that little epidemic," Lam shoots back. "Stay home, Colonel. Doctor's orders. I'll send an airman over to your apartment to take a swab in the next half an hour."

* * *

Sam delays her departure until John's test results come back, not that it does much good: the _Hammond_ finally breaks orbit at 1600 hours.

The only reason John had allowed himself a four-day vacation on Earth in the first place is because Sam has installed an experimental drive on the _Hammond_ that's estimated to cut hyperspace travel-time in half. Now John will have to wait for the _Daedalus_ to finish her upgrades, which means two more weeks, plus the eighteen days just to get home.

Frustrated, John slams a bunch of kitchen cabinets, shoves a chair into a wall, cursing himself for being a selfish idiot, though he can't decide which is more selfish, taking leave to visit his boyfriend when no one else was offered a quick ride home, or being pissed at his boyfriend for making him miss the boat. Or hell, slamming things around in his boyfriend's kitchen and waking him up because he's an asshole.

The soup he made for Cam is still in its pot on the stove. He'd brought Cam a bowl two hours ago when it was time for his meds, but Cam hadn't been hungry. John ladles a bowl for himself and carries it into the living room to eat in front of the television. He doesn't feel sick--is determined not to be sick--but he drapes Wendy's afghan over his legs anyway. It's warm.

He wakes to Han Solo being frozen in carbonite, which is puzzling when he fell asleep watching the Discovery Channel. He pushes himself up, disoriented, then nearly jumps out of his skin when Teal'c pauses the DVD and sets the remote down on the coffee table.

"Jesus, you scared me!" John stares at Teal'c, and Teal'c, elbows perched on the arms of his easy chair and fingers steepled under his chin, stares right back, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes.

"Colonel Carter informed me that both you and Colonel Mitchell were ill," he explains. "When you did not answer the door, I used the key Colonel Mitchell provided for emergencies." The members of SG-1 all have keys to each other's homes--at least, for those who have homes that aren't a top-secret military base deep inside a mountain--but with Cam's reputation for hospitality, he is willing to bet the rest of the team let themselves in here more often than, say, Jackson's apartment.

"Sure, take a load off," John says, all the while wondering if he should be more worried that an alien came into his home, sat down beside him, and started watching _The Empire Strikes Back_ without John ever waking up. For such a big guy, Teal'c sure can move quietly.

"I have brought medicine for you from Dr. Lam." Teal'c points to a small pill bottle sitting next to a glass of water on the coffee table. John takes his meds without protest like a good boy. "If you are hungry, I will begin preparing dinner for you and Colonel Mitchell."

"You really don't have to do that," John protests awkwardly, turning the glass around and around on the coffee table, leaving wet rings. "I made soup. We'll be fine."

"Nevertheless," says Teal'c, unmoved. He sits and waits--for what, John has no idea.

Fidgeting uncomfortably under that expectant gaze, he finally blurts out, "I'm gonna check on Cam," and escapes the living room as though running for his life. John likes Teal'c and admires him, and even counts him as... not a friend, exactly, but something close to family. He's someone John trusts implicitly to have Cam's back, and by extension, John's as well.

Doesn't mean the guy's not unnerving as hell.

In the bedroom, the curtains are drawn, but the reading lamp is on and positioned to shine up at the ceiling, away from the bed. Cam is restless under the covers, awake enough that he rolls over when John comes in, and stretches out a hand until John climbs into bed with him.

"You're here," he whispers, looking so bewildered that John doesn't have the heart to stay pissed at the situation.

"Yeah, apparently I'm sick. Sam had to leave without me."

"You're sick?" Cam puts a clammy hand on John's forehead and almost pokes him in the eye.

"H1N1 flu, same as you." He's not coughing yet, but he can feel the tickle in his throat and the phlegm building up in his lungs every time he takes a deep breath. "Teal'c is here, I think to keep an eye on us. Jaffa don't get sick, right?" Cam's face scrunches up like he's not sure of the answer, which John suspects is not a good sign. "Cam? Cameron, do you want me to call the doctor?"

But Cam waves him off, turning his face away to cough instead. "Water," he croaks, reaching for the half-empty glass on the nightstand. John keeps hold of it while Cam takes a few sips, then shakes out a pill and hands that over as well, since it's about time. Once he's done with the water, Cam collapses back against the pillows, coughing, chest rattling. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise for being sick," John tells him, exasperated, conveniently forgetting all the times he's done the same thing. "You hungry yet? Do you want your soup?"

Cam makes an noncommittal noise, and wriggles around until he can tuck his face into John's neck, which John takes as a 'no' on the soup. "Stay," Cam says suddenly, the word muffled a little by John's t-shirt. It's still the clearest thing he's said all night.

"I already told you I'm staying. Sam left without me, remember?" But that's not what Cam is talking about, and John knows it.

"'m tired of waiting, John," he whispers, sounding exhausted in a way that's not physical. "I can't anymore."

All at once John is pissed off again, sick and pissed off that he's sick, pissed off that he's stuck in the wrong galaxy, pissed off that his boyfriend is choosing now to have the big relationship talk. "You're a selfish prick, you know that?" John snaps, sitting up, pushing Cam off him. "If you're so tired of waiting, then don't. Nobody's asking you to."

Flipping back the covers, he gets out of bed, can't hardly get out fast enough. He glances back at the door--Cam hasn't moved an inch. His eyes are closed, lines etched deep around his mouth and between his eyebrows, his face pale and sickly. "Selfish _prick_," John says again, and yanks the door shut behind him.

He locks himself in the bathroom, because no way is he in the mood for anything Teal'c might say or do. He paces in the tiny space between the sink and the bathtub, muttering to himself. "'Stay'," he says mockingly. "Fuck you too, Mitchell." Cam has no fucking business telling John what to do, especially when it comes to John's responsibilities to Atlantis.

If Cam doesn't want to wait, why should he have to? John's certainly not expecting anything from him, not when they live in different galaxies and court death in new and exciting ways each week. So what if Cam is the closest he'll ever come to a happily ever after, or that Frank and Wendy are the parents he'd wished for growing up, or that John keeps waking up, night after night in his narrow bunk in Atlantis, reaching for Cam and feeling bitterly disappointed that he's not there.

John won't stay and Cam won't wait. There's really nothing more to be said. Considering the obstacles their relationship has faced over the years, it's kind of a miracle they've lasted as long as they have. But all good things must come to an end, or so they say. His bag is packed and sitting out in the hall. If it wouldn't be a completely dick move, he could walk out right now and find a hotel.

Instead, he slides down on the floor, the bathroom tiles cold under his ass. His chest feels tight. It's strange how much it hurts.

* * *

Eventually John works up the energy to leave the bathroom. It's the only one in the apartment, so someone's going to need it sooner or later. John goes into the kitchen where Teal'c has set out a meal clearly intended for a sick person: slices of a fresh baguette with butter, a bowl of his chicken vegetable soup, and broccoli boiled so soft, it's practically mush--just the way John likes it.

He eats slowly, grateful for the soft foods when his sore throat protests the effort of swallowing. The living room is dark, but Teal'c's fedora is still hanging on the coat rack, so John assumes he has taken Cam's meal to him in the bedroom. He wonders what they're talking about in there. Him, probably. Why it wasn't working between them any more.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, playing with the crusts of his bread, but he's startled yet again when Teal'c comes out of nowhere and takes his plate from him to place it in the sink. "You are ill, Colonel Sheppard," Teal'c says, a note of disapproval in his voice. "You should change into clothing appropriate for sleep."

The man has a point, John realises, because his body is stiff, tense, shoulders hitched up around his ears, and _cold_, his hands and feet numb. He's sick, dammit, and he's been sitting around the apartment all day in his Atlantis BDUs, which is comfortable as military uniforms go, but not as comfortable as a soft fleece pullover and thick socks and Grandma Mitchell's quilt.

"Come," says Teal'c, and brings John to his feet effortlessly with one hand under his elbow. John stumbles down the hall like a zombie, his head fuzzy, disconnected from the rest of his body. The only point of physical contact that feels real is Teal'c's hand high on his back between his shoulder blades, guiding him inexorably into the bedroom.

Cam's lying on his left side, turned away from the door, apparently fast asleep. When John realises Teal'c expects him to get into bed, he mumbles something about sleeping on the couch, which garners him a _look_ from Teal'c that's a dead ringer for the one Teyla always gives him whenever John's done something even more idiotic than usual. The familiar expression grounds him, momentarily clearing the cobwebs.

"Go," he shoos Teal'c out the door. "I can take it from here."

"Are you certain you do not require further assistance?" asks Teal'c, one eyebrow arched as though in disbelief that such a foolish, inconsequential Tau'ri could accomplish anything for himself without a good deal of hand-holding. Still, he goes when John waves him out, closing the door behind him.

Shucking his BDUs and pulling on a t-shirt and sweats, John lies down in the empty space on the right side of the bed with his back to Cam's. It takes mere moments to sink into sleep, every ounce of him heavy and too weighted down by physical and emotional exhaustion. He dreams--bizarre imaginings that make perfect sense in dream logic. Atlantis is parked in Frank and Wendy's fields, wheat and soybean plants brushing up against the city's piers. He scales the outside of the central tower and climbs in through the balcony to find Cam and his brother and the rest of SG-1 ploughing the fields in the gateroom and planting ZPMs. Todd is the scarecrow.

Like all dreams, everything his sleeping self knows, feels, and believes, the pictures, noises, and sensations he experiences--they vanish without a trace into the bog of the human subconscious. Ghost lights in the morning mist. "I didn't mean it," someone's whispering. It takes an eternity for John's brain to finally register this isn't part of the dream, that there is a voice speaking to him.

It's Cam, curled up next to John but not touching him except for the hand hooked into the collar of John's t-shirt. "I wasn't trying to make you go," says Cam, tugging lightly on the t-shirt for emphasis. "I want you to _stay_, John, I don't want you to go."

John grasps Cam's wrist to hold him still. "That's not fair, dammit." As much as he loves Cam, and God, does he love him--passionately, overwhelmingly, it feels like sometimes--the fact is that Cam doesn't _need_ John the way Atlantis does. Cam has friends, a family, a career. He has a purpose in life, the same as John, so he knows, he should understand that John can't abandon the mission.

His grip loosens and drops away when Cam reaches up to brush John's cheek, his ear, soft and careful touches. "I know it's not, John, and I know you can't stay." He turns his face into the pillow and coughs, a deep, hacking cough that continues until he's limp and shaking.

John rolls over and rubs his back in circles, feeling helpless. "Shh, take it easy."

"God, I hate this," Cam moans quietly. He sounds so defeated. "I hate that you're here only because you're sick."

The room is nearly pitch black, but John doesn't need a light to see the look of misery on Cam's face right this moment. It's clear as day in his voice, in the flat tone, the lack of conviction. Thinking back, he realises now that Cam has been unhappy the past four days, despite his initial excitement at seeing John. He's been tense and moody, his temper flaring whenever John tried to talk shop. Even his emails in the last few weeks have been shorter than usual, and John doesn't think he can blame _that_ on the flu. "You know I love you, right?"

"Yeah, I know." Cam flicks his ear. "I love you, too."

He says it, and he means it, but there's no life there, no fire. In all the years they've been together, Cam has never said "I love you" without the full force of his emotions behind them, never tossed off an absent "love ya" as he dashed out the door. He always lingers on the words, imbues them with as much significance as they can hold.

Now all John hears is calm acceptance.

Keeping his breathing steady, not quite panicking but getting close, he flails for what to do next. The silence stretches for long minutes, and Cam's knuckles tap lightly at John's cheek. "Hey."

John licks his chapped lips. "Once Sam works out the kinks on the new hyperdrive, I'm sure the Air Force will want to outfit all the Daedalus-class ships. Bet that'll make Caldwell happy."

"It'll cut down on the commute," Cam agrees. "Give folks a chance to visit Earth more."

"Yeah, exactly," John says quickly. "So, you know, I'll be over here so often you'll probably get sick of me. Nine days is, I mean, it's not as good as the intergalactic gate bridge, but, um--" He cuts himself off, feeling Cam staring. "What?"

"You mean you'll use your annual leave to actually visit your boyfriend instead of going surfing with Ronon like you did last year?" Cam's tone is blistering. "Gee, thanks."

"You, uh, you're still mad about that, huh," says John, cringing, and makes a mental note to schedule leave again as soon as he's got the days. But whatever anger Cam might be feeling doesn't prevent him shifting closer and draping an arm across John's waist.

"I miss you, okay? I hate that you're so far away." There's a note of pleading in Cam's quiet voice, the barest yet unmistakable hint of longing, and John can't not reach out. He traces his fingertips along Cam's jawline and down his throat, feeling the flexing of muscles as Cam swallows. "It's not that I don't understand why you won't give up Atlantis--I don't want to give up SG-1 either, not while I can still go through the gate. The job is too important." Then, before John can agree with him, he goes on to add, "But sweetheart, it's still just a job. One day, eventually, we're going to have to retire--or at least take desk duty. This isn't something we can keep doing until we're decrepit old men with walkers, okay?"

John's first instinct is to immediately deny a future in which he is put out to pasture, too old to keep up with the Marines under his command. But he takes a deep breath and doesn't say a word, because he's also smart enough to know, however much he hates the truth, that there are only two ways his career can end: either he lives long enough to retire, or he gets himself killed in action.

For all that John has a reputation for taking on suicide missions, he doesn't actually want to die in the field--if for no other reason than chances are his team will suffer the same fate alongside him.

"You're right," he finally says, accepting the argument. "I don't like it, but you're right."

"Yeah," Cam sighs, then falls silent. There's a long pause, and John wonders if he's drifted off again, but Cam muffles another cough in his pillow. "At least you're here now," he whispers with what's left of his air.

"I'm here now," John murmurs.

* * *

They spend a week feeling absolutely wretched, feverish and coughing and blowing their noses raw, but somehow manage to avoid the nausea and other, more unpleasant symptoms. Teal'c slips in and out, their designated Florence Nightingale, though John suspects even his patience has its limits the third time Cam refuses to eat a meal he's prepared.

Still, they survive the ordeal and eventually recover enough to migrate to the living room couch. They pass time between naps playing video games, and Teal'c thoroughly dominates them in GTA and Halo 3 and even virtual golf, which John finds bewildering.

On the sixth day, while Cam's in the shower and Teal'c has left for the Mountain, John digs out his ex-wife's phone number and calls. "Hey, Nancy. It's John."

"John, hello," she replies, clearly surprised. "I didn't think I'd be hearing from you any time soon. What's going on?"

John rubs the back of his neck, head down, one ear tuned to the water running in the bathroom. "I had some questions about, uh, about the divorce. If you wouldn't mind talking about it." There's nothing that screams desperation like calling up the ex for relationship advice.

"Depends on what you want to talk about." She seems wary and confused, which is pretty understandable since their divorce had been fairly cut-and-dried: she hadn't wanted his money.

Clearing his throat, he says tentatively, "You said it was about priorities? That I didn't spend enough time with you because I was such a workaholic." Even across a thousand miles, he can see her sceptical expression. "Please, Nancy. I just... need to understand what I did wrong."

"It wasn't any one thing," says Nancy, reluctant. "It was a lot of little things. It's kind of hard to pinpoint." She sighs, a faint hiss of static over his cell phone. "But, John, it wasn't just you, okay? It wasn't about one person doing one thing wrong."

"I know," he says, because he was never blind to her faults either. She was, still is, incredibly ambitious. She hadn't married him for money, but she had certainly appreciated his family's connections, the doors that being a Sheppard opened for her. But that's not what this phone call is about. "There must have been a moment when you realised or decided that this wasn't what you wanted any more."

She's silent for a few seconds. "Yes, there was." There's another silence as she gathers her thoughts. "Do you remember my grandmother's ninety-eighth birthday party? I said, my grandparents were so lucky to have grown old together, and that I wanted us to be like that when we were ninety-eight. And you... had this _look_ on your face, like you had no idea what I was talking about."

There's a part of John that wants to believe she's lying, making up a story, because while he remembers the birthday party, he has no recollection of Nancy making a comment like that to him. "But your grandmother's birthday party was years before the divorce. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I said plenty--more than enough." Her voice is cool and collected as she answers him; if this conversation is stirring up old ghosts, she doesn't let on. "I hung on for as long as I could, believe me. But that moment, that's when I knew you weren't in this with me. Not for the long haul, not the way I needed you to be."

"I loved you," John protests. He'd been willing to go to marriage counselling, anything to keep her happy.

"And I loved you," says Nancy, briskly. "But somewhere along the way, I stopped being as important to you. You always had another mission, places to go. I know you had an important job to do, but... It was like you believed I didn't need you the way the Air Force needed you, or the way whoever you were going off to save needed you. And maybe that's true, maybe I didn't really need you as much as it felt like I did--God knows I've done just fine without you." She laughs, not bitter, but perhaps jaded. "I just remember thinking, what kind of marriage do I have that my husband comes home only because he doesn't have something better to do?"

He chokes, appalled that she thinks this way. "That's not true."

"Well, it's not the whole truth, no," she concedes, her tone softening. "Like I said, it was never one person's fault. I'm sure there are plenty of things you could say about me and what I did or didn't do. But, hey, I'm under no obligation to listen, remember?" She laughs again, this time lighter, freer. "You called me."

"Good point." John shuts his eyes, takes a few calming breaths. The water in the shower turned off a minute ago, so he really needs to wrap this up. "Thanks, Nancy. I appreciate your talking to me. If there's ever anything you need..."

"Hmm, I doubt it," she says, thoughtfully. "But do me a favour? Let me know how it turns out with you and whoever she is. You've got me curious."

"_Bye_, Nancy," he replies, and hangs up as fast as humanly possible.

* * *

During the first week of the flu, neither of them has the energy for more than cuddling. Also, it's kind of gross, with all the snot and germs. But once their symptoms clear up and Teal'c clears out, they embrace their second vacation, making out and having sex in every room of the apartment, several times and in various positions. While they're at it, they take the opportunity to thoroughly clean and disinfect the place. "In case I ever want guests over again," Cam jokes.

Not once does he bring up the fight they'd had about John staying, and John is too chicken-shit to start the conversation himself. All he knows is that he doesn't want history to repeat itself. Cam means too much to him.

In the end, Caldwell forces his hand when he informs John that the _Daedalus_ upgrades will be finished two days ahead of schedule. She'll be ready to depart for the Pegasus galaxy in the morning.

"It's just as well," Cam shrugs. "Lam says I'm fit for active duty. SG-1 should get back out there."

But John is not ready to leave yet, not when he still has no idea how to convince Cam to wait for him, not to give up. It's a radical turnaround from twelve days ago, when he'd been itching to get moving. He can't find the right words, so that night he gets Cam to fuck him into the mattress, and in the afterglow he blurts it out, unrehearsed, and hopes Cam will understand.

"If you want to get married, we'll get married," he says breathlessly. "If you want to buy a house together, we'll buy a house together. If you want me to tell my team about us, I can do that. Whatever you want, Cam."

Cam stares at him, his expression slowly crumpling. He slides off John to lie on his side, head propped up on his hand, though the tension in his body and the furrow in his brow belie his casual pose. "I'm not asking for a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence." He's fighting to keep his tone neutral. "I don't need vows from you if you're making them for the wrong reasons."

"They wouldn't be for the wrong reasons," says John, as honest and as wide-open as he knows how. "I would mean every word."

"But you're not giving up Atlantis," says Cam, not a question so much as a confirmation.

John shakes his head. "No, I can't just yet." He lays his hand over Cam's where it's resting on the mattress between them. "But someday."

"Someday?" Cam echoes. There's a spark of hope in his pale blue eyes. "You mean it?"

It's sad and wrong, John suddenly realises, that Cam is willing to cling to a vague and meaningless promise like "someday". He deserves better than that. "General O'Neill gave up SG-1 and took command of the SGC at age fifty-two," he offers tentatively. But Cam's look of dismay nixes that idea.

"I'm only thirty-nine!" he exclaims, jaw dropping open. "No way in hell I'm waiting thirteen years. Plus," he adds, grimacing, "O'Neill is not exactly my role model when it comes to romantic relationships. My hero in everything else, but you _do_ remember that he's divorced, lives alone on the other side of the country, and has to deal with politicians on a daily basis?"

"Okay, that's..." John shudders. "Right, bad idea." He thinks for a moment, then smiles a little uneasily. "Well, we're both eligible to retire in three years." They could do it, get out as soon as they're able, become civilians for the rest of their lives. It's not really what he wants, but he'll try. For Cam's sake.

But Cam is frowning as well, reluctant to bow out so early. "We're healthy and able. I'd hate to see us out of the game when we're more than capable of doing our jobs," he says slowly, and John grins at him in relief. Cam grins back. "Maybe a compromise? Some number between three and thirteen?"

More at ease now that they are talking concrete numbers, John rummages in the nightstand for a pen and a piece of paper. He rips the paper in two and gives half to Cam. "Write down a number," he says, scribbling his own on his half of the paper.

Cam takes the pen and writes. "Trade," he says, and takes John's paper. "Eight? How'd you come up with eight?"

"I split the difference between three and thirteen." John unfolds Cam's slip and reads the number. "How did you get five?"

"I dunno," says Cam, one shoulder hitched up. "It's a nice, round number."

John gives him a funny look. "Technically, 'five' is not a round number at all."

Rolling his eyes, Cam sighs, "Yeah, well, ten years seemed too long." He toys with the scraps of paper, poking them into the mattress and listening to the crinkling sound they make. "Now what?" The lines around his mouth start cutting deeper grooves.

"Now we split the difference again," John says practically, not willing to stop when they're this close to a compromise, to something real that they can hold onto. "Six years and six months, from this date. It's a promise, Cam." He tries to explain it in a way that will convince Cam, despite his uncertainty and disbelief at how easy it seems that John is willing to give up the city he loves. "When the Ancients kicked us out of Atlantis, Elizabeth told me something after the whole thing was over and General O'Neill said we'd be allowed to stay. She said that she had taken comfort in the fact that, of all the ways for the expedition to end, being told to leave because the original owners wanted their home back was not exactly her worst case scenario. Didn't even make the top ten. Of all the ways for the mission to end, walking through the gate with everyone alive and healthy--that was still a win."

"It was," Cam says, because he knows from those kinds of wins.

John lifts Cam's hand to his lips and kisses his scarred knuckles. "I'm thinking, if I can keep my people safe for another six and a half years, I'll have done that much. I'll have kept them safe for twelve years in total, and that's not nothing." He laces their fingers together, holding on tight. There had been a time not too long ago when he'd truly believed he would spend the rest of his life in Pegasus--with the Athosians, or else on the run with Ronon, if the Air Force ever tried to reassign him and the IOA refused him a civilian position with the expedition. Now, with Cam in his life, finally understanding what Cam was asking of him, he realises that he's not that man any more, the one who had no family or ties, who loved Antarctica for its solitude and chose Atlantis for its distance from his past. He's not the man who had no one to whom he could send a good-bye video. "I'm not going to promise something I can't deliver," he says. "But I'm serious about visiting you more, whenever I can get away with it. And I'm serious about the six and a half years."

The slowly blossoming smile on Cam's face is worth all the ZPMs in two galaxies. "Thank you," Cam whispers, pressing his lips to John's in a sweet, heartfelt kiss. "That's all I wanted, to know you want us to have a future together. Thank you, John."

It's the easiest thing in the world to roll Cam onto his back and kiss him deeply, with all the love he feels. "You don't have to thank me," John tells him. "I'm doing this for me too. For us."

* * *

John celebrates his forty-sixth birthday on Earth. He's been back for two months, long enough to finally start relaxing and trusting that his weekends won't end in disaster just because he's not armed at every moment of every day. He and Cam have never been happier.

And Teal'c very rarely looks at him like he's too stupid to live, which John figures is as good as it gets.

**Author's Note:**

> An [adynaton](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adynaton) is "a figure of speech in the a form of hyperbole taken to such extreme lengths as to suggest a complete impossibility" (e.g. when pigs fly).


End file.
